


Fixed to Ruin

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Breathplay, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Implied Relationships, M/M, Self-Destructive Choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 14:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7761592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All I mean to say," Cesaro continued, "is that trouble has a way of finding you, even when you're not actively courting it.  You might do a better job of watching out for yourself.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixed to Ruin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedLeaderfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLeaderfic/gifts).



“Sure, sure.”  He accepted an ice pack from the trainer, listening with half an ear to advice he could've recited by now (even if he could never quite manage to follow it) while he lowered himself down from the padded surface of the exam table and onto his feet, moving both gingerly and impatiently. He was sore and stiff, sure, but why should tonight be different than any other? He had other places to be, other itches to get scratched.

He craned around a little to press the ice to the shoulder that Lesnar had dropped him on – the bad one; wasn't it always? - and nodded along with instructions about rest and ibuprofen as he backed out the swinging door... and straight into another solid body.

“Careful, friend.” Cesaro said, side-stepping him and reaching one hand out to grip Dean's elbow while the other lifted a tall paper cup up and out of the fray. “This is passable coffee and a very good shirt –” They both glanced down at the pressed lavender button-down in question for a moment – Cesaro probably pleased with the color or the cut or the weave or the way the cuffs laid where he'd rolled them up his forearm or some cultured shit like that; Dean mostly taking the excuse to admire the way the material stretched over Cesaro's broad chest and the muscles of his arms – before he continued, “and I would hate to have to make you replace either.”

“I'd hate to see you try,” he said, stepping out of Cesaro's grasp to shift the cold pack to a less awkward spot. “It's no fun making the Cesaro Section cry, man.”

“You mean, of course, tears of joy for my hard-fought victory.” Cesaro took a long sip from his cup and gave him an innocent smile over the brim.

“Seriously, though,” he said, cutting the shit for a minute, “it's good to see you, brother. Figured you'd be home with Kidd and the cats still. You cleared?”

“Not yet. I was told they might fit me in for another evaluation if I could meet medical on the road,” he said, inclining his head toward the trainers' room. “And, so, I am here.” Cesaro shrugged, face tight as he stared a hole through the door in front of them.

“Whatever it takes to make it to 'Mania, right?”

“That is the goal,” Cesaro agreed. “I might wonder, though, the way you keep poking the Beast, if you're sure that you're going to make it there?”

“What? You don't think I got him right where I want him?” He smirked at Cesaro's dubious expression and plowed on. “'sides, this is fun! I know you know I like to play rough.”

“First-hand knowledge,” Cesaro allowed, smile small and sly and hot. “Still, are you sure Lesnar is the best playmate you could choose?”

“Been working out for me so far,” he said, and stuck his tongue out and stretched his face into a leer. “Ain't looking for a prom date. Or even a good conversation.”

Cesaro looked at him placidly, taking another sip from his cup before he spoke. “We've arrived,” he said simply. “I know we keep botching one another's names, but we aren't Claudio and Mox anymore. I am no longer my own tailor, and you don't have to bleed for everything you want.”

Dean squirmed, scrunching and readjusting the ice pack at his shoulder, an excuse not to meet the searching and serious look Cesaro had aimed at him.

“There are other people who would give you what you need. Roman, perhaps?” A pause. “And I hope you know that I would gladly oblige.”

He chuckled. “Ooh, yeah; oblige me harder, big boy.”

Cesaro shook his head, exasperated but fond, and Dean was sure he didn't realize that this - the way he still seemed to _like_ Dean, even after putting up with his bullshit off and on over so many years - pretty much guaranteed that Cesaro couldn't give him what he got from Lesnar.

“All I mean to say," Cesaro continued, "is that trouble has a way of finding you, even when you're not actively courting it. You might do a better job of watching out for yourself.”

“You know me.” He smirked, and started walking backward away from medical and toward the locker rooms. “Achtung, baby,” he said, and threw a lazy salute in answer to the string of cheerful - and probably filthy - German that followed him down the hall.

* * *

A few minutes and a couple of winding turns through the arena's underbelly later, he ditched the ice pack in a trash barrel, smacked his palm against the center of the plaque that read _Private_ , and pushed into the locker room beyond. If Mr. Special Attraction didn't want him here, he could throw him back out. He was kinda counting on it.

Lesnar, already dressed in street clothes, looked up from his half-packed gear bag at the noise, face shifting from stony irritation to predatory amusement. His mouth twisted into something sharp that could almost have been a smile, if a hawk smiled at particularly interesting rats before tearing into their guts.

Dean felt that look in his chest, cold and then hot, and reached for the door. He heard Lesnar scoff - thinking, clearly, that Dean was going for the handle to head back to the relative safety of the arena; still thinking, bizarrely, that he was that careful - until the sound was cut off by the heavy _clunk_ of the deadbolt slamming home. He turned back and took a few steps deeper into the room, closer to where Brock was now laughing, silent and red-faced.

"Didn't you get enough in the ring?"

"Never have before." He shrugged. A fresh sweat was breaking out on his skin, prickling on his bare chest and running in a sudden bullet down his spine. "What made you think you were gonna be the first?"

Lesnar bounced to his feet, quick and dangerous, the gear that had been balanced in his lap falling in an unregarded heap at his feet. He stepped over it, and then he lunged.

Dean was ready for him, but the momentum still carried them across the small room, Dean's back meeting the wall with an impact that jarred his shoulder and made all his bruises sing and drove the breath out of his lungs. He tasted blood and traced his lower lip with his tongue, finding the raw spot. He grinned widely, even as he wilted against the cool blocks behind him, let himself be kept upright by the hard bar of Lesnar's forearm beneath his chin and the knee jammed between his own.

"What makes you think your first is anything I'd want to be?" Brock sneered at him, but his face had flushed even redder, and Dean knew he couldn't be the only one getting harder with every erratic throb of his heart. Brock gave another dry chuckle, something between amusement and contempt, and stepped back, raising his hand in a careless vice that gripped Dean under the jaw, pinning him back to the wall before he could pitch too far forward. "Play your cards right, and I can be your last, though."

Lesnar shifted his grip, fingers and thumb digging hard into the soft places beneath the corners of his jaw. Dean gave another feral grin and swallowed, his throat working hard beneath the blunt, steady pressure of the heel of Lesnar's hand.

With his free hand, Lesnar jabbed a couple of speculative fingers into the constellation of bruising on his ribs. Dull pain bloomed sweet under his skin, sending sparks behind his eyelids and a breathy moan up from his chest and past the hand at his throat.

He felt lightheaded, equal parts the fierce ache radiating through his muscles and bones, the constriction of his throat, the breathtaking stupidity of having put himself in Lesnar's hands, and all the blood rushing straight to his cock.

Lesnar was grinning now, smug; the kind of look Dean wanted to wipe off his face, even though he'd come here chasing it. The Beast liked playing with his food, even when the food liked it, too. His blunt fingers moved away from the old bruises to leave new ones, fastening around his nipple – the one with the gnarly scar – with a savage twist, and another low, harsh sound escaped from Dean's throat, taking a burst of hot breath with it.

The careless hand at his throat kept him from refilling his lungs, and he was starting to feel it in the tightness in his emptying chest, the tingling in the tips of his fingers as they struck against Lesnar's chest and scrabbled uselessly at his arm, and the way his legs had gone heavy and shaky beneath him. The stars and sparks behind his eyes coming as much from his stolen breath as from the friction of Lesnar palming him through his pants.

Lesnar jerked at the waist of his jeans, popping the button and taking down the zipper. “Really into this, aren't you?” he said, shoving fabric aside to expose Dean's cock to the cool air and his own scornful look. “Freak.”

The sound he made at that was part choke, part whimper, and all breathless and Lesnar laughed again, a small, ugly noise, as he wrapped an uncaring fist around his cock. Dean bucked weakly, helplessly, against him, the feeling of trying ineffectually to escape blurring together in his fuzzy brain with the feeling of trying desperately to get off. The hand at his throat tightened. Or maybe his focus just sharpened on it, the world narrowing to the stiff fingers banded around his neck and the hand stroking roughly over his length.

His vision was going grey and swimmy at the edges, and he was distantly aware of his hips still jerking erratically. Lesnar was smirking again, and his lips were moving, but whatever bullshit he was spraying, Dean couldn't hear over the the pounding of his own heart, the thrum of the blood dragging heavy and airless through his veins.

The hand shifted on his cock, making a rough swipe over his head, and Dean's hazy vision of the snarl on Lesnar's face whited out as he came in a heavy spurt, spattering hot against the skin of his burning chest.

Both hands dropped away from his body at once, leaving him to land in a graceless heap on the concrete floor when his rubbery legs refused to hold him up. He sucked air back into greedy lungs in a series of loud, desperate pants while beads of sweat and his own cooling load trickled down his heaving chest. His head was ringing a little and hanging heavy on his abused neck. He let it tip back against the wall behind him, and looked up to find that Lesnar had taken his own dick out, jerking himself a bit less viciously than he'd handled Dean.

He recognized what was going to happen, but not nearly soon enough to get his still-buzzing limbs to move him out of the way or put up more than a token resistance before Lesnar was finishing, directing his ropy spray to splash against Dean's jaw and run sluggishly down the flushed skin of his throat. He wondered idly if the Beast would have done the same thing if he had actually choked him out first. Probably, he decided, a bolt of heat cutting through his belly at the image of coming to, tacky and sweaty, sore and used up.

Lesnar reached down to scrub a hand through his hair. It wasn't grounding or affectionate, the way Roman or Cesaro or Zayn (hell, even Seth, no matter what filth was pouring out of his mouth at the same time) might have touched him, but more that Lesnar wasn't about to wipe his mess off on his own jeans, and Dean was more convenient than the nearest towel.

Lesnar tucked himself back into his sweats, crossed the room to scoop the rest of his gear back into a bag, then hit the door, throwing the bolt. "See you at Fastlane, Lunatic," he said without looking back, leaving Dean slumped against the wall for anyone to find.

"Not if I see you first," he rasped into the empty room, voice coming out as rough and ruined as ever.


End file.
